


La Belle Dame Sans Merci

by joy_shines



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ...probably a lot more, And Natasha's, Ballet, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Family of Choice, Friendship, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Multi, Mythology References, Obedience, Oral Sex, Persephone is my gal, Praise Kink, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, deprogramming, play piercing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 15:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joy_shines/pseuds/joy_shines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desire makes men stupid - unfulfilled desire doubly so. And the rest of the Avengers, whatever else they may be, are men. </p><p>Or: How Natasha Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Avengers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At Court

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CyberMathWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberMathWitch/gifts).



> Usual sort of disclaimer: MCU is not mine, nor are any of the characters. Just playing in the sandbox.

“The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized.”

Andreas Capellanus, _The Art of Courtly Love_

The most important lessons from the Red Room were not the many martial arts, not the languages or the secrets of evasion and slight of hand, but the deep, intimate understanding of desire. Once one understood how to feel out desire, find the weak point (because that’s what desire is: a weak point, to be exploited), and press on it? That was most of it. Gadgets were great; good training was indispensable, but if you understood desire and its workings? You could leave most of your props unused.

Figure out what the mark wanted - not what they thought they wanted, but what they really wanted, the thing for which overt lust or cruelty was just a cover - and give them that. The common wisdom was that marks - marks like hers, at least - wanted satisfaction, wanted pleasure and their every whim gratified. That was certainly what they thought they wanted. The reality, though, was that most men wanted to chase her, not catch her; to hunger after her, not to possess her. And where there was unfulfilled desire, there was always, always the potential for jealousy.

Give a man a quest, a compelling goal to pursue, and an apparent villain or competitor, and even the slimiest criminal begins to think himself a knight. Play them skillfully enough, long enough, and they even started to mistake lust for love, placing her on an ever-higher pedestal. And when a man feels knightly, thinks of himself as noble, he gets stupid. He’ll start a fight at the faintest whiff of a challenge. He’ll spill secrets without realizing it, because she’s not a real person to him, not a real person, but a vision - goddess or courtesan or both. Something that could never betray them. He’ll even, if she’s worked him correctly, put himself in harm’s way to protect her; he’ll believe her words over the evidence of his own eyes.

Desire makes men stupid - unfulfilled desire doubly so. And the rest of the Avengers, whatever else they may be, are men.


	2. Clint: Stripping Off

Clint is...well, it’s fucking trite to say that Clint is everything to her, especially when that’s demonstrably untrue. It is true, though, that Clint made it possible for her to have and be everything she is now.

Everyone knows it was Clint who brought her in, brought her from the Red Room to SHIELD. She knows that some of them think that she’s enchanted him, manipulating him as she does her marks. Some of them even think that Clint is manipulating her, laughable as that is.

What they don’t know, though, is that it was Clint who finally helped her find her way down off the pedestal that her marks, all the nameless men in bars, and the Red Room built for her. It was Clint, after all, who peeled back her outer layers, laying bare her self, that tiny core of an identity, the small candle flame of true desire. It was Clint, with his sniper’s patience, who held her up, held her together, then held off until that small flame became a conflagration, till she couldn’t help but let go of her control, of everything that anyone else had ever put on or into her, until she was beggingfor what she wanted. And then he gave it to her. Slowly, exquisitely, and she discovered herself through her body’s pleasure, found something entirely her own in the utter samadhi of desire satisfied.

And that’s the way it goes, with Clint. It’s not just that she doesn’t have to be someone different with him, putting on one of her many masks and playing a role. It’s that he’s made - he is - a safe space for her to be nearly formless, stripped back to foundations, slowly adding pieces to create the self that is wholly hers. With him, she’s not the Black Widow, not an assassin or a goddess or a siren. She’s not his fantasy or his savior or his possession. They’re equals, for all that it would appear to an outside observer that she spends a disproportionate amount of time on her knees in front of him, sometimes tranquil, sometimes pleading.

Neither of them, though, give a good goddamn what anyone else thinks about their relationship. They ask for what they want, give all they can, and continue to learn that, though love may be for children, surrender and true devotion are strictly for consenting adults. And if they both know that, somewhere in the self Natasha is carefully constructing, there’s a child who still believes in love? Well, children deserve protection, so they’ll guard this one fiercely, nurturing it in secret, until she’s strong enough to speak for herself.


	3. Pepper: Self Reflection

Undercover work is nothing new - it’s what Natasha does, what she’s been trained for. Working as Natalie Rushman, slipping into the character of a seductively competent secretary is easy, so easy. And Stark - well, he’s not hard to size up (Later, she’ll look back on this, and wonder at how he duped her, how dangerously she underestimated him.). Pepper Potts, though - looking at Pepper is like seeing herself in a light mirror, what she might have been without the Red Room. 

Pepper is sharp, tossing remarks as pointed and well-aimed as Natasha’s blades. She can disembowel a man with a memo, or ruin him with an email. Her heels click with the same deadly rhythm as Natasha’s, and Pepper wears her precisely tailored suits like armor. They are so similar, down to the red hair, to the deceptive softness, to the way they wear their femininity: to disarm and eviscerate. 

Oh, some of their weapons are different. Pepper has numbers and stocks and publicity and  light , so much light on her side - camera flashes and street lights and boardroom fluorescents and TV screens. Natasha’s got blades and explosives and martial arts...and the shadows, shadows to slip in and out of, shadows where Pepper’s cameras don’t go, shadows where no one thinks to look. Shadows that allow her freedom of movement, of passage, of deception. 

Natasha wonders at how Pepper stands all that light, the weight of all those gazes - how can she get anything  done with everyone looking at her? She wonders what it would be like, for everyone to see her schemes and plans play out in the light of day. To have her face on a magazine in the grocery store, lauding her achievements. She doesn’t doubt that she could learn to use Pepper’s tools - the numbers and the politics and spinning stories...but the light, all that light. When she goes out into the world to work, it’s never as Natasha. She has a cover, a shadow that moves with her, obscuring and protecting herself from her marks, from her enemies, and from the vagaries of a thoughtlessly cruel world. 

Later, much later, she’ll mention this to Pepper over vodka martinis, because Pepper needs girl talk sometimes, and is convincing Natasha of its value. Pepper smiles, that knowing smile that just misses being smug. “You know, when you were working for Stark Industries, I hated you. I know you know that...but it wasn’t just jealousy over Tony.” They’ve put that to rest, long ago. “You grated on every nerve I had, pulled up every petty, competitive impulse I’d never known I had in me. And it was because I could  see myself in you, but distorted. The components were all there, but they didn’t fit right. Once I knew...well, that ‘Natalie’ was  your alter ego, everything made sense.”

Pepper absently taps her nails against her martini glass. “You know, my world isn’t closed off to you. You’d be good at this, at what I do. Living...in the light, as you say, gives its own kind of cover. You’d learn, and I’d help you.” Natasha has never really had friends, not really - even Clint isn’t really a  friend \- he’s so much more than that - but she still recognizes this as something a friend, a real friend, might offer to do. She ponders for a moment, but, really, there was no question.

“Pepper, that’s kind of you. But I’m good at what I do, and I’m finally starting to feel like I have a place I belong.” She nods, like she didn’t expect anything different. 

“Don’t thank me, Nat. It’s selfish on my part, actually. I’d enjoy working with you, and I can  always use someone as, well,  good as you are.” She smiles, a little sadly, “The offer stands, though. If SHIELD ever gets to be too obnoxious for you, well, you’ve got options.” She clasps one of Natasha’s hands in hers, the sort of impulsive physicality she only allows herself when she’s with Tony, or a bit tipsy. 

Holding on to Pepper’s strong, delicate hand like she’s clinging to a world in which people like her  can have friends, she says “Thank you, Pepper. I might take you up on that, some day.”


	4. Tony: Gearing Up

“Are we breaking up, Widow?” His voices comes sharp over the comm lines, “My tech not good enough for you anymore?”

“Shut it, Stark. SHIELD R&D wanted me to field test this model for them. You’re not the only engineer in this city with new and exciting weaponry.” There’s no witty retort, just a huff, and a blinding blast from the repulsors, sending another of the latest round of killer drones through a large window, spraying glass everywhere. Truth to tell, this gun isn’t that great, and she misses Tony’s custom work. It’s good enough, though, and soon the drones are in pieces.

She’d put it out of her head, until later, during the debrief, “And Fury, next time you decide to send one of my people out into the field with a weapon cobbled together by your trained monkeys? Don’t. Just don’t. I equip my team. Me.”

“Mr. Stark, Agent Romanov seemed to be doing a fine job with the new model - “

“Yeah, but that’s because she’d be amazing with a piece of wet spaghetti and a pencil. But that’s no reason to send her into combat with a weapon that is not balanced correctly, doesn’t support her strengths as a fighter, and has an unnecessary and off-putting amount of recoil. The object, Director, is not to find out just how little she can make do with, but to provide exceptional people with tech as exceptional as they are. And that, sir, is my fucking job. Have Agent Romanov test your people’s shit on the range in her spare time, but don’t you ever send her into combat with something I didn’t create for her.” Tony turned on his heel and stomped out of the room.

When Natasha got back to the Tower, she went looking for Tony. She had figured out, back when she was working undercover at Stark Industries, that while Tony was not the sort to be jealous over a woman, over sex, he did have a competitive streak a mile wide - and he was stubborn. His speech in Fury’s office made it clear that he felt he had the right to equip her, that he could put his mark on her with his tech, with his gadgets. When she was with the Red Room, she belonged to them - she wore their clothes, used their tech, had their conditioning in her brain. She had known what it was to be a token, a pawn, labeled and used by a controlling hand. On occasion, other organizations had tried to acquire her, tried to put their mark on her - but they failed, and were crushed in the process.

SHIELD was better than the Red Room - far and away better. They would let her use Stark’s tech, if she made a case for it. They didn’t try to rearrange her brain. However, there was also no question that they were, as Clint might say, the boss of her. Fury was willing to give Tony a substantial amount of leeway - which was a good damn thing, because standard operating procedures went out the window where Stark was concerned - but SHIELD takes care of, and maintains, their own. She’d never be Stark’s creature, a canvas for his mad visions and newest tech. And, if that’s what he expected her to be? Well. That kind of frustrated desire made men stupid. A stupid(er) Stark would be even more of a liability in the field.

He had shut himself in his workshop, of course. The windows were shaded, and the door unresponsive to her code. There was no reasoning with him in this state, so she merely made sure that JARVIS was pushing food and fluids as much possible, and went to the gym.

Two days later, she found an email:

_Romanov._

_My lab, now. If you want to save this relationship._

_\- The only engineer YOU’LL ever need._

He looked exactly like she expected after two days in the lab - dark circles under his eyes, the bright edge of caffeine-driven wakefulness in his movements, grease and machine oil everywhere.

“Here. Tell me that’s not better than what SHIELD gave you.” Natasha took the offered gun, feeling the balance. It had clearly been made for her hand, and no other. The material felt like one of Tony’s own alloys - strong and light. She made sure the safety was on, and extended it toward the window, away from living creatures and bots alike.

“You know it’s better, Tony.” She sighed, “You know I wouldn’t have chosen to go into the field with their gear instead of yours. They asked me to, and I work for them, not you.”

“That’s good, too. We all know how that worked out last time. Here’s the thing, Tash. You can say no to them. Not about everything - I know that - but about this? You’re the best - one of their stars. Rank hath its privileges, babe. You’re their fucking queen - you deserve the very best there is - not to be used as a guinea pig for any grad student with a blowtorch. More than that, you’re one of mine, and my people are the best, because I don’t settle for less than the very fucking best, and my people don’t get anything less than my very best work. Ever.”

“All right.” Natasha paused, unwilling to leave the issue hanging, “Don’t think this buys you any favors, Stark.” To her immense relief, she could practically hear Tony’s eyes rolling in their sockets.

“You’ll hurt yourself like that. Look, you just seemed pretty territorial at the debrief. It seemed important to you that the Black Widow wears and uses StarkTech. You have to know that SHIELD won’t let you make me the pinup girl for your latest and greatest inventions. So, if that’s what you want...you’re not going to get it.”

Tony gave an exasperated huff, running his hands through his hair. “Fuck. It’s...why am I the one who has to explain feelings? I’m terrible at feelings. You’re not a fucking racecar, to be plastered with sponsors’ logos. You’re one of my colleagues. One member - and if you repeat this to Steve, so help me, I’ll end you - of this incredibly fucked-up” Tony’s mouth twisted on the word, “family we’ve got here. More than that, you’re like...you’re like the fucking queen of assassins. You’ve got my fucking back in the field. And making sure you have the very best tools possible is the only way that I could possibly help you. And I’m the only one who should be making your tools because I’m the only one who knows you well enough and has the genius to make you something as good as you are.”

She nodded, turning the gun over thoughtfully, trying to shake the image of an artisan paying tribute to a queen, offering the finest of his creations. Her earliest training plays in her head, insistent, “Desire is never selfless, no matter what those who feel it believe.“

“But what do you get out of this? What’s in it for you, Tony?”

“You mean other than the part where I get to design badass, specialized weapons and gear? Apart from the fact that working on your gear is a mad scientist’s wet dream? I get to know, for sure, that you’re as safe as I can make you - that you’re as strong and well-equipped as you can possibly be. I’m not really the chivalrous type - and you don’t need someone to defend you. All I want is to give you the best tools for defending yourself.”

“Thank you.” She leaned in, placing a quick, precise kiss on his greasy cheek. “Just so you know, Fury’s been making noise about getting me some EMP and explosive throwing knives, like Clint’s arrowheads. I’d hate to see SHIELD figure that out before you do. Fury does get irate when I reject his gifts.” Tony gets that mad glint in his eye, and she can tell he’s already sketching plans in his head.

“But right now, I need you to come with me and explain all about my new toy.” Over Chinese food, she thinks. She’s pretty sure she can get JARVIS to switch Tony’s coffee for decaf, too, then talk him into a movie on the couch - which should lead to at least a few hours of sleep. After all, if he’s to be her only engineer, she’s got to take care of him. He damn sure can’t seem to do it himself.


	5. Bruce: Stitching Flesh

“Thank you, O’Henry. I can take it from here.” Natasha sighs with relief to hear Dr. Banner’s polite voice. She’s taken to looking for him in the aftermath of battles - at least, those where he doesn’t have to bring out the Other Guy. He has deft fingers, gentle and capable - taking care of what needs to be done as quickly, efficiently, and painlessly as possible. It makes for a nice change from the majority of SHIELD’s medical staff. Natasha doesn’t like medics or submitting to medical attention at the best of times, and this new intern has a particularly heavy touch. A few stitches really shouldn’t hurt this much.

But Bruce is here, now. She hadn’t expected to see him, this time - there’s still a lot going on out here, and he usually tries to limit his exposure to panicked civilians. He looks calm enough, though there are lines of tension between his eyebrows. He slips her a small shot of a local anaesthetic before she can protest, and neatly finishes the stitches. “Sorry about that,” he says, under his breath. “I couldn’t get over here any faster. I’ve never seen anyone make such a mess of simple stitches. What do they teach in med schools these days?”

Natasha shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, Bruce. I’ve been on the receiving end of much worse. I appreciate it - but I’m sure you have other things to look after. You didn’t have to put yourself through this just to fix me up.” Bruce goes still.

“Is that how you think of yourself, Nat? A thing to be fixed? Nothing but a finely-honed machine?” He sounds weary, like this is something he’s utterly tired of confronting. She can tell there’s no good answer, so she says nothing as he turns away to another patient.

Later that evening, she’s doing some reading in the common room - keeping up her French with a truly terrible spy thriller - when Bruce offers her a mug of tea and sits down next to her. She takes the tea - milky and strong, just like she likes it - and waits.

“I know you’re used to being the one doing the looking, Nat. I know you’re used to being the observer, not the observed. But I’m a researcher, a scientist - seeing the details is just part of what I do. Don’t think I don’t see how the small things grate on you - the preventable pain, the inefficiencies, the clumsiness. You’ll take a punch without flinching, but you have to force yourself to stay still for a simple injection. I see how you hate being in medical - all coiled tight and ready to get the hell out of there at the first opportunity - and I see how it gets worse when you have incompetents like O’Henry gouging you.”

“Bruce, that’s kind of you. It really is. But, I’m a big girl. I may not like it, but I can deal with it.”

“That’s just it, though. It’s one thing to be able to deal with unavoidable pain or annoyances - that’s a necessary skill. As all of us living with a certain genius-playboy-et cetera well know. This, though, is not necessary. This is not about being strong enough to to be able to go without anaesthetic or pain medication - don’t start, I’ve seen you brush it off too damn often. This is not about having the patience to endure clumsy treatment. This is about the fact that you don’t have to endure it, because I can be there for you. I can’t change the fact that you need medical treatment, but as far as it’s within my power, I can make sure it’s as fast, neat, and painless as possible.”

She thinks for a moment, remembering her conversation with Tony, and pushes down everything that tells her that protection is patronizing, is an attempt at owning her again, and remembers that there are apparently forms of desire and possessiveness not written in the Red Room’s curriculum.

“Nat, let me do this. Let me give you what I can - make this one thing a little better, a little less awful. Let me know I can do that for you.”

She nods. “It’s yours.”

* * *

 

After the next combat, she keeps her promise, and finds Bruce. He smiles, gently, and patches her up, cleaning and bandaging. And the next time, and the time after that - eventually, the medics learn that if Agent Romanov’s injuries are not urgent, they should leave her alone. Once, several weeks later, an officious doctor, who really should’ve known better, attempts to dress a nasty-looking gash while Bruce is tied up helping assess the biochemical weapons used in the attack.

“Doctor Velasquez, this isn’t anything that can’t wait. I’d really prefer to wait on Doctor Banner, please.”

“Agent Romanov, that is not your decision to make. I’m not sure why you’ve been letting Doctor Banner treat you, in the first place. It’s highly irregular, as he’s not even a medical doctor.” The man sniffs disdainfully, and it’s all Natasha can do to not to slap his hand away as he prepares to clean the wound. Before the alcohol pad makes contact, though, a familiar voice rumbles in her ear.

“I may not be a medical doctor, but I am more than able to provide first aid. If Agent Romanov chooses to have a friend care for her minor injuries, that is her prerogative, as long as they are cared for. Wouldn’t you agree, doctor, that  you’d much rather be in surgery, or working on a more interesting case, than dressing a simple cut?” The doctor apparently does agree, and scampers off.

Bruce’s brows are drawn tight together as he opens a new alcohol swab. Pain, pure and bright, shoots through Natasha as he begins to clean the wound with all of his usual efficiency, but little gentleness. She gasps with the unexpected sensation - Bruce was usually meticulous about the use of anaesthetic creams, shots...anything that could reduce or eliminate pain. And he always, always apologized before inflicting unavoidable pain. She looks up into his eyes, and sees no hint of green, but a hard, satisfied darkness. She flinches a little, intentionally, and sees heat rise in his face.

“Bruce, are you...are you punishing me? I didn’t want him to work on me - I told him no, but he insisted.” Her voice shocks him out of his reverie, and his face resumes a more familiar expression - pained compassion, and guilt.

“I know,” he says, through gritted teeth, “Natasha, god, I’m so sorry. I know you told him not to - he wouldn’t have been giving you grief if you hadn’t. I just...I saw him going for you…”

“...and you’re the only one who gets to decide if I hurt like this?” She’s seen people who enjoy pain before - hell, she’s seen it on Clint’s face, his hand buried in her hair. She knows it doesn’t negate his desire to care for her. “You can’t stand to see someone hurt me carelessly, accidentally, but hurting me deliberately, when you know exactly what’s happening and that it’s happening cleanly and efficiently? That’s something different, isn’t it?”

His hand is shaking, just a slight tremor, as he sets down the swab and the bandages, bringing his hand to his forehead. “Nat, I can’t do this right now. I’m so sorry. You deserve more than this from me. You trusted me.” This isn’t acceptable. If he continues to self-flagellate, he’ll think he’s unfit to tend her. He’ll have one more thing to add to his list of wrongs, and she’ll have to deal with O’Henry, Velasquez, and the rest of them. She sighs, and puts two fingers under his chin, raising his eyes to hers.

“I still trust you, Bruce. I trust that when you hurt me, you know exactly what you’re doing. I trust that you’ll never hurt me by negligence, but deliberately, carefully. I trust that you’ll take care of me, even when you’re hurting me, whether you’re hurting me because it’s unavoidable, or because you want to hurt me, or because I asked you to. I do trust you, Bruce. So show me that my trust is well placed, and patch me up.” He gives a long, shuddering breath, and moves to fix the bandages.

“And we’ll talk about this more once we’re back home.”

 

* * *

 

“Ready, Nat?” She can honestly say she never expected to shiver, just a bit, at the sound of Dr. Bruce Banner’s voice. But, then, she’s never heard his voice so loaded, heavy with darkness and desire. Coming from him, this kind of trust, of vulnerability, is almost painfully sexy.

“Yes.”

“What are the safewords?”

“Tchaikovsky for “stop,” Prokofiev for “slow down,” and Stravinsky for “fuck yes.””

He chuckles, and picks up one of the thin, flexible needles. “Alright. Deep breath in, Natasha.”

She does as he instructs, feeling the bite of the needle as it pierces her flesh, slides through, and emerges a few centimeters further down her back. She realizes that she’s gritting her teeth and pushing down her reaction - but that’s not the point of this exercise. With a conscious effort, she exhales and doesn’t bite back the pained noise that escapes her along with her breath.

“Ok, Nat?” Bruce’s voice has gone even huskier.

“Stravinsky, Bruce. Remember, this is...fuck, how can a little thing hurt like that? This is about me being open with you, about giving you my pain. I’m trusting you with this...you have to trust me to let you know if I’m not ok.”

“Alright. Another deep breath.”  She’s proud that she doesn’t even try to suppress the yelp of pain that accompanies the push and slide of the next needle. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

Bruce is wicked, she decides, as precise and calculating as his alter ego is blunt and bombastic. She cries out again, a litany of curses this time, as he applies careful pressure to the piercings. Bruce groans at that, breath hot on her ear.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve given me, Nat? Any idea just how gorgeous you are, face all frantic and eyes wide with pain? None of those blundering fools deserve to see you like this. None of them deserve to hurt you.” And, just like that, she’s gone, out of her head on pain and endorphins and his rough voice.

“Please, Bruce. It’s so good to hurt for you.”

“That’s right, Nat, it’s such a relief to be able to cry out, to really feel pain, isn’t it? Knowing that I’m in control, that when I hurt you, it’s because I mean to. Because I want to hear you cry out, to see you come undone for me. You can just relax with me, Nat,” and he pushes harder against the piercings, wringing another cry from her, “open yourself up to it, and tell me what you want.”

“God, Bruce, I want to suck your cock while you hurt me. Please.” The words spill from her, and if she were in any other situation, with anyone else, she doesn’t think she could have said those words with any sort of sincerity. She’s a little bit surprised to find that she does, in fact, want to suck him off, as long as he keeps that clear, precise pain and those smoldering words flowing.

Bruce pauses, clearly taken aback. “Nat, are you sure? You don’t have to - you don’t owe me anything. This doesn’t have to be sexual - I’m happy with this.”

“Fuck, Bruce, you asked me what I want - that’s what I want. Right here, right now, that’s what I want. If you don’t want it, that’s completely ok, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s all _Rites_ of fucking _Spring_ up in here…” and her words trail off into a wordless cry of pain as he twists a needle, then fumbles for something in a drawer. There’s the rip of a foil packet, and she looks up just in time to see him smoothing one of the condoms he and Tony created together down over his - she must say, rather impressive - cock.

Normally, Natasha treats fellatio - well, oral sex in general - like a fucking art form, but this time, she lets that all go. Lets go of all the concerns about technique, about finesse and she simply experiences it - Bruce's fingers pressing and twisting at the piercings, the warm thickness of his cock in her mouth, and the rumbling groans and choked-out words falling from his lips.

“God, Nat, yes, so good for me, so yielding - so pretty when you suffer to please me. Fuck, some day...fuck, Nat, someday, I’m going to hurt you real good, right in front of everyone. And you won’t show it, because only I get to see this, you only show this to me. But I’ll know. And you’ll know, and fuck” and he’s coming, coming and pressing down harder on the piercings and she’s wailing in pain, but she feels clean, burned out, purified.

She gasps, though, when he pulls her up, pushing her onto one of the tables, and sets his teeth in the side of her neck as his clever fingers continue to prod at her back. “Did you think you got away that easily? No, Nat, I’m not done with you yet. You see, I see it - I see how you love this, even when you hate it.” His other hand reaches between her legs, just as precise and focused as the one on her back, circling her clit, then slipping two fingers under her panties and into her cunt. “I thought this was for me, Nat, but it’s for you, too, isn’t it? You love this, you love that I want it, that I’ll take it from you. And I will take it, beautiful, god, Nat, so beautiful. Come for me, Nat.” And she does, clenching around his fingers arching towards him, babbling in pain and exquisite pleasure.

Later, Bruce has disposed of the condom and has laid her out on one of the lab tables to remove the piercings, wiping them carefully, but thoroughly, with alcohol. She’s floating on endorphins and her orgasm when a thought catches her and she laughs aloud.

“Mmm? What’s so funny, Nat?”

“They told us, when I was young, they told us that if we did well, we’d have men falling at our feet, willing to suffer for our attentions, for our love. But I trust you enough to let you make me suffer, Bruce and...and...who would have thought that pain would be a reward for me?” She dissolves in a fit of giggles as he hums bemusedly and cleans her up.


	6. Phil: Protect and Serve

At first, Natasha worked with Coulson out of necessity, tentatively trusting Clint’s assessment and assurances. She waited, though, for the inevitable raised hand, the command to _Take out the mark, Romanov. Your opinion was not requested._ He seemed like a truly decent man...but the handlers with the Red Room had been experts at playing the ‘protective parent’ role, lavishing praise on the girls, only to turn violent at the slightest infraction, expressing their “disappointment” that their precious girls would betray them in this manner.

“Tasha,” Clint sighed, after one of those early missions, “that’s not how he works. Phil is...Phil’s responsibility to his agents is as close to a sacred trust as he has. I don’t understand it either, sometimes, how he keeps his patience in light of my smart mouth. But he does. You’ll see, eventually.”

It was true that Phil wouldn’t let her out of his sight after a mission until she’d been cleared by medical. It was also true, though, that he smuggled her tea, and the tiny cookies she loved...and if he seemed to always have a novel stowed somewhere on his person, well, of course Coulson was the sort of unrepentant nerd who carried Pratchett books everywhere.

In the most secret depths of her heart, Natasha acknowledged that she was slowly, carefully coming to trust and rely on Phil. She began to accept the warmth that rose in her when his voice came over her comm, sure and steady, replete with praise and concern. She rolled her eyes, but agreed that Clint had been right, and Phil’s couch truly was unnaturally comfortable.

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand, Clint. How the fuck did you get past his guard? Not,” she added, a little hastily, “that I want the kind of relationship you two have. It’s just...he always seems so buttoned-up, so impenetrable.”

“You do realize how hilarious that is, you know, coming from you, Tasha? Ok, ok, Christ, no pinching, we talked about this. It took years, you know. And he never would’ve done anything about it...but I didn’t leave him much choice. When you find your ‘asset’ mostly naked and kneeling by your desk, well, not even Phil Coulson can let that pass without remark.”

“Mm. I suppose not.” She doesn’t want what Clint has with Coulson, she really doesn’t...but sometimes, she thinks it’d be nice to know what it’s like to be fed by hand, when she’s restrained by leather instead of tubes and IVs. It might even be nice to have an afternoon where she doesn’t have to make one goddamn decision for herself - and none of the orders she’s given involve violence or death.

Natasha ponders all of these things in the silence of her heart, never intending to give them voice. Then Phil Coulson...then Coulson dies.

* * *

 Clint went to pieces in the aftermath of the Battle of New York - of course he did - and Natasha took a grim, tender pleasure in being able to hold herself together while she helped Clint shake off the last of Loki. While she helped him reclaim and rebuild himself. While she helped him grieve for his lover. She shed her own tears quietly, without fanfare, as she held Clint to her, murmuring comfort and nonsense.

They held each other together - and then found, to their surprise, that Steve and Tony and Bruce were there to hold them together, as well. They said their private goodbyes, buried Phil in their hearts, and moved forward, becoming a team.

* * *

 “Pardon me, Director, but you should remove yourself from the room. I don’t know whether I’m going to kiss you or kill you, but I don’t think you should stay around to find out.”

“Acknowledged, Agent.” The door closed behind Fury.

Natasha turned to look at Clint, kneeling beside the bed, shoulders shaking, as Phil - who was not dead, apparently - ran one hand through his hair.

“My beautiful, brave boy,” Phil was saying, “I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. But I’m so proud of you for keeping on, for moving forward…” Clint snuffles out something she tries not to hear - this is a moment that should be for the two of them, much as she might long to hear that warm, steady voice full of praise for _her_ , too.

“Is that so?” She thinks she hears a hitch in Phil’s voice, and it damn near breaks her. “Agent Romanov...Natasha, Clint tells me I have you to thank for keeping him going in my absence.”

Clint mumbles something that, she’s pretty sure, is “She fuckin’ saved me, Sir.”

“You two do seem to be very good at saving each other, for which I am unutterably grateful.” He planted a brief kiss on Clint’s knuckles, and invites Natasha closer with a tilt of his head. She freezes, unwilling to intrude on their reunion, unwilling to test her already-strained control. Phil’s eyebrow cocks, that gesture that tells her she can’t pull one over on him this time. He whispers in Clint’s ear, and without lifting his head from Phil’s hip, Clint extends one strong hand in her direction, message unmistakable.

Then, it’s Clint’s hand warm in hers, and both their heads, side by side on Phil’s healing body, and one of his hands, just resting on her hair. It feels like surrender. It feels like home.

* * *

Eventually Phil’s released from SHIELD medical, into Clint and Natasha’s custody. With very strict, very particular instructions for his care and feeding. Natasha knows her role: she’s the handmaiden, included in this to make sure that the practical aspects are taken care of - grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking - so that Clint and Phil can have this time to heal their relationship as well as Phil’s more physical wounds. She’s prepared to be helpful, but unobtrusive; firm, without overstepping.

Which is why it takes her completely by surprise when Clint greets her at the door of the safe house with a blindfold and his “I have your number, Tasha” smirk.

“Clint, there’s a time and a place. We’re here for Coulson, not our own games.” His grin widens.

“Damn right, Tasha. Now be a good girl for Phil, and let me bind your eyes. You can safeword, but you should probably be sure that’s really what you want to do, first.”

With a sigh that conveys her doubts in Clint’s good sense, she accedes, and lets him lead her through the house. Even though they agreed long ago that a blindfold means turning off her normal tendency to observe and catalog, she can tell that there’s a fire crackling in the room, a draft from a large window, and another body in the room, just in front of her. Clint gives her the “kneel” signal, and she drops to her knees, onto a cushion. A hand cups her cheek, and she gasps.

“Oh, Natasha,” it’s Phil’s voice - of course it is - steady and warmer than the fire - “you’ve been so good to us, to Clint and me. Pushing aside your own needs to take care of us, assuming all that responsibility - we can’t thank you enough.”

“But we have some ideas about trying,” Clint quips from across the room.

Natasha can feel The Eyebrow that Phil is leveling at Clint, and a laugh that threatens to be a sob catches in her throat. “But, sir, we’re supposed to be taking care of you - this isn’t about me. I…” She stops at the touch of two fingers on her lips.

“Are you under the impression, darling girl, that I don’t understand the instructions you were given? That I don’t understand what’s necessary for my own recovery?” She shakes her head, feeling herself go still and quiet inside. This is how things are supposed to be - Coulson’s voice in her ear, calling the shots. “Good. Now, here’s how this is going to work: you are not in charge. I am in charge, and Clint is my right hand. For these two weeks, it’s not your job to plan or coordinate or decide. You have only three responsibilities: do what we tell you to; let us know what you need - for yourself and from us - and safeword if you need to. That’s it. Can you do that for us, Natashenka?”

She breathes, remembering what she’s learned with Clint: You can trust, trust this man, these men to ask for what they want, to ask truly. “Yes, sir. I can.” Strong fingers under her chin guide her to kneel up, and his lips brush hers. “That’s our good girl,” Phil says against her mouth. Clint’s hands descend on her shoulders, and he rumbles against her ear, “Damn right, sir. The very best.”


	7. Thor: Brother in Arms

Thor comes back. Natasha is of two minds about this development - he works well with the rest of the team, and that’s good. There’s no doubt that he’s an asset to them, that Mjolnir is a powerful weapon and that he wields it with devastating force. Hammer jokes aside, though (seriously, Stark, EVERYONE has seen _Dr. Horrible_ now), she’s uneasy about Thor. He is, after all, a king - or very nearly so. It’s been many long years since the mere fact of royalty could impress, much less inspire fear in, Natasha. She knows, better than most, that rulers all too often have feet of clay - far, far too many weaknesses to exploit. The expect to get what they want - they’re entitled to it, after all - and that makes them laughably easy to put off-balance.

This is a problem, though, when the royalty in question isn’t a mark. Is, in fact, part of the team...and dating one of the women who might become a friend of hers. Maybe.

Days pass. Thor is loud. Thor is loud, and utterly unsubtle. He’s loud when he’s congratulating Bruce on a fine meal; loud when he’s groaning with an indignant Fred Savage over Westley’s untimely demise; and wall-shakingly loud when he and Jane disappear into his room for hours on end.

Weeks pass. Thor is completely unembarrassed about what he wants. There’s no hemming and hawing from him when the question of dinner arises - he always has an answer (this means that the team has gone for pierogies and empanadas more often than she cares to remember, because apparently Thor adores hand pies). He asks Bruce for shoulder rubs, straight out (the rest of them will sidle up to Bruce, like stray cats looking for handouts, when they need his hands). He’ll drag everyone to the Statue of Liberty once a week, if they’re around when he gets the urge.

Months pass. Thor is...courteous. He’ll happily take the last of the cookies Phil bakes, but only after asking if anyone wants them. He’ll walk into the trendiest new restaurant, fully confident in his ability to get a table (reservations are things that happen to other people) - but gods help the maitre’d who punts someone off the list to give him a table. When she spars with him - because she does that now - he never holds back, never treats her as weak or delicate, and that is courtesy, too. The fact that he thanks her, each and every time, helps, too.

* * *

 

It’s been a bad one. Most of the team is in medical, and she should be, too - but she can’t face that, right now. They had tried to get into her head, the first time in a long, long time that’s happened. She wishes Clint were conscious, so he could remind her that she’s not theirs; that she’s still her own. But there’s no Clint, there’s no Coulson right now, not even Bruce can be there for her at the moment. Only the knowledge that she’s in SHIELD prevents her from wheeling and striking when she feels a large, warm hand on her shoulder. She idly wonders how she let him get this close, and knows she’s in a really bad way.

“They were foolish to think they could break you, sister. They underestimated you, fatally so. Do not repeat their mistake. You are wiser than that.” She wraps her arms around her midsection, willing herself not to lash out, not to ask him what right he has to tell her what to do or not do. She realizes that she’s shaking, a fine tremor. He shocks the breath out of her by gathering her into his embrace, a hug, of all things, strong arms enclosing her, securing her.

“I am not one of your heart-mates, I know, but I would comfort you however I can. They tried to take you from yourself, but they failed utterly. You are the lady Natasha,  my sister in battle, the mighty Black Widow. You enjoy dry red wine, the stories of the Hobbits, and the music of Stravinsky. You best me two falls out of three, and your command of invective is truly admirable.” She huffs out a laugh.

“Thor, don’t flatter me. You throw me at least as often as I throw you.”

“Perhaps you are correct. I generally leave figures to my beloved Jane,” his eyes were twinkling, and she rolled her own.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

“As you say, sister. Now, come, I shall have curry delivered to the Tower, and perhaps you can explain to me why the Eagles do not merely deliver the Hobbits to the Mountain of Doom. Lady Darcy made a valiant effort, but soon digressed into the epic love story of Gimli and Legolas, which is truly a tale for the ages, though I do not remember it from either the books or the films.” He turned towards the exit, calling for a car back to the tower, and she found herself following bemusedly.

She had never had a brother, nor been anyone’s sister. Nor was she in the practice of hugging or being hugged. And yet, hobbits and curry did sound like an excellent way to get her mind off the mission and pass the time. She might have to record the conversation for Coulson, though.


	8. Jane - Frappé, Piqué

Taking Jane Foster to the ballet was possibly one of Natasha’s best ideas since...last month, at least, because that thing with Bruce and Phil and the rope was...exquisite. But this, this is amazing in a completely different way. To her right, Darcy is staring slack-jawed at the men in tights, because “Oh my Thor, it’s like all my Christmases came at once,” and that’s amusing all on its own, but on her left, Jane is almost vibrating out of her seat. She’s quiet, but Natasha can tell that she’s seeing not only the story of _Romeo and Juliet_ danced out on stage, but the physics of the music intersecting with the physics of the bodies in elegant equations. Jane’s fingers twitch at the arms of her seat, grasping for a non-existent pencil, and Natasha steals a glance at Pepper, on Jane’s other side.  “Brilliant idea,” she mouths.

After the show, they’re having coffee and pastries. Jane’s finally gotten her hands on a pen, and is dashing off sketches and equations while Natasha tells a very interested Darcy about the long, long tradition of cross-dressing in ballet.

“So, lemme get this straight...whenever there’s a role for an old woman or a witch, it was historically played by a man? That’s…” Jane’s head jerks up from her work, “I need to see more of that.”

“What? Jane? I mean, yeah, I could stand to see more of those dudes, too..”

“No, Darcy.” Jane huffs a little sigh, “I need to see more of those movements. I mean, I’ve almost got the details of those” she crosses her hands over each other, mimicking a dancer’s feet “those tiny little jumps, but I haven’t got all I need on the turns or the jumps that also turn, or...well..Natasha, I need to see you dance.”

Pepper cut in smoothly, “Jane, if you’re just looking for the physics of it, there have been several fine studies - not, of course, that watching Natasha dance wouldn’t be great fun, but if you’re just looking for the data, there’s plenty out there. You don’t have to re-do the work.”

Darcy chuckles, “Ms. Potts, ma’am, that’s like telling Tony that he can just read the technical docs on the Roomba, rather than pulling it apart. At least in this case, Natasha’s not going to end up in a pile on the workshop floor. Probably.” She turns to Jane with her best ‘wrangling the scientists’ face on, “Jane, you are not, I repeat NOT, allowed to break the Black Widow. Or, more importantly, Natasha. Why are you studying this anyway? Just for the pretty, or have you got an idea?”

“Well…” Jane equivocates, tapping her pen on the table, “Tony does your gadgets now, yeah? Probably your armor too.” She’s right - that man is a genius, full stop, but what he can do with lightweight bodyarmor? It’s positively arcane. “Right. And, Tony being Tony, I’m sure he’s used what he’s seen of your fighting style to personalize your equipment. And it’s not that your training as a dancer doesn’t bleed over into your fighting style...but Tony being Tony, he probably didn’t take those particular capabilities into consideration,” Jane pauses for breath, and visibly takes in Darcy’s “oh, gods, _scientist babble_ ” expression. “Right. Um. Long story short…”

“Too late!” Darcy yelps, triumphant.

“...I think that considering the mechanics of ballet, and your abilities as a dancer, might open some avenues for really useful upgrades and improvements. Who knows when being able to go _en pointe_ might be useful?”

“That’s really kind of you, Jane, but I haven’t kept up with my dancing since before I joined SHIELD, and I’m…” Jane’s giving her the face she normally reserves for Darcy, when she’s protesting that she’s just a poli-sci major, who can’t be expected to understand Real Science.

“Bull. Shit. How many fighting styles do you know? How fast did you pick up that yoga that Bruce taught you? You learned to dance as a child, right? That stays with you forever, deep down.” Natasha grimaces. She’s right, damn her. Oh, she’s rusty, but she remembers. The ballet lessons were one of the only parts of her training that she actually enjoyed, even then, in the Red Room. It’s not that it was easy - it was harder than a lot of other things she’d been required to learn - but it was beautiful, a refuge from everything in her life that wasn’t.

“Of course, if that’s not something you want to pick back up, you certainly don’t have to,” Pepper says, evenly. Pepper is painfully good at reading Natasha’s discomfort, and Jane blinks, as though waking up.

“Oh! Oh. Of course. Of course, Natasha - I’m sorry, I just got so excited, and then the possibilities just leapt out at me and…” She reaches out to Jane, taking one of her flailing hands in both of her own.

“It’s ok. I really appreciate the thought - and I promise, you’ll be the first one to know if I start dancing again.”

* * *

 

Natasha gives herself two weeks in the revamped yoga studio before she invites Jane to come see her. Tony never does anything by half measures, and this is certainly no different - a gorgeous sprung floor, mirrored walls with lush curtains that Bruce can draw when he can’t take his own reflection, sturdy wooden barres, with no hint of the lurking splinters she remembers from childhood. The movements, the movements come back easily enough, the patterns and combinations drilled into muscle and bone. But for days, she watches herself in the mirror, seeing blades in the flick of a hand, hearing the tattoo of gunfire in the scuff and thwack of pointe shoes on the hardwoods. She sees her body, moving with all the beautiful precision of a well-oiled machine, a well-kept weapon, and she sees what Jane sees, the ways this training augments and fills in the small spaces.

After a week, she tells Clint. She even allows him to come watch her, with the caveat that if he puts his head in the path of her foot, he deserves what he gets. After a few minutes, the music stops suddenly. She whirls on him.

“Clint, ‘not fucking with the music’ was implicit in the invitation when I asked you down here.” He looks pinched around the eyes, not mischievous.

“Tasha, why are you doing this?”

“What? I told you. Jane said she thought it could enhance my skills as a fighter, and” she rushes on, not giving him time to interrupt, “it would be silly not to use every technique, every advantage I have, just because sentiment says…”

“I know what Jane said. But I thought I was coming down here to watch you dance. This isn’t dancing, Tash, it’s battle.” _I know_ , she wants to say, _that’s the point. That’s what I am, don’t you know? It could be art for other people, but not for me._ He puts his hands on her shoulders, pushing gently. She goes to her knees readily enough, but he maintains pressure, and she sinks further, sitting on the floor, legs splayed gracelessly.

“Close your eyes.” She opens her mouth to protest, but, damn him, he’s too quick, always too quick, “Just do this for me, ok?” Her eyes slip closed.

The music starts again, the tortured strains of Giselle’s descent into madness filling the room. Oh, and she hears it all - love and unbearable loss; betrayal and madness; artifice and sincerity. The music fills her, permeating her being in a way she hasn’t felt since she was on that job, on the stage, filled up, just for once, with light and sound, movement and beauty. Where the death was an act, but the feelings were real. Silence descends, once more.

“Do you get it yet, Tasha? Do you understand? You’re allowed to have this.” His lips were soft on her hair, “Are you going to dance for me or not?”

* * *

 

Natasha whirls to a stop, striking an avian pose as Stravinsky’s music shivers and ceases. To her surprise, Jane isn’t taking notes, doesn’t seem lost in a physicist’s paradise of velocity and force. She’s sitting on her cushion cross-legged, eyes wide and bright, hands quiet in her lap.

“Jane? Did you get what you needed? Want me to run it again?” Jane shakes herself, a bit.

“Yes? No, I mean...I wasn’t,” she shakes her head again, “I mean, thank you. That was amazing. I’m...I’m sorry I tried to make that about...to make it into a weapon. I didn’t...I didn’t realize.” Natasha raises an eyebrow in question.

“Jane? I said it was alright. I’m glad you prompted me to get back into this - I’ve missed it much more than I realized.”

“That’s good...I just...well, I’m still learning that not everything has to be about,” she gestures vaguely, taking in the studio, Avengers Tower, and possibly the whole of New York, “this. You know, what it is we do. Saving the world. Darcy is...well, Darcy and Pepper are teaching me that...sometimes beauty or pleasure is its own justification.”

“...are you certain that Thor isn’t helping with that?” Natasha can’t keep the amusement out of her voice, and is gratified when Jane blushes, and pushes the hair out of her face.

“Strangely enough, I’ve been learning that same lesson. So, thank you for being my catalyst.”


	9. Bucky: Made Flesh

She is Bucky’s goddess. Steve is his god, all light incorruptible, pure and benevolent - Steve makes him  want to be better because Steve Rogers is, and has always been, heroic. But Natasha, Natasha who has gone through the same darkness, who has been made and unmade so many times, who has come out the other side; Natasha, who has come up from the darkness the Winter Soldier knows so well, come up into the light, into the world of Steve Rogers...Natasha gives him hope that he  can be better. If it happened for her, perhaps it can happen for him, too.

As she holds him close, stroking and soothing, both of them trusting the restraints Tony made, Natasha knows that she would not be here without Clint. She would not be here, helping Bucky shuck off everything done to him, if Clint had not first helped her, made her believe it was possible. She can see it in Bucky’s eyes, the way the red of her hair looks like pomegranate juice to him, proof of the darkness she’s seen, proof that she came through alive, ruling the darkness rather than being ruled by it. She fights against the urge to dispel the illusion, to tell him that she’s not worthy of the awe, of the utter trust she sees in the slackness of his body, the faint tremors that cross his face. To tell him that she’s mortal yet, frail and fragile and still so newly her own. 

Men have needed her to be divine for them, a goddess made flesh - a Word to obey or a deity to profane - but never like this. In her mind, she sees the two of them, a Russian icon - the compassionate knowing on her face; the knowledge that her sufferings, her redemption, have made his possible. Natasha tastes a mystery when she kisses the sweat from his brow, the tears from his cheeks. She hears adoration when he chants plainsong, “Please, please, please, touch me, please, God, Tasha, please please please  make me like you .”

“How did you do it?” she whispers to Clint, as they lay together, naked limbs twined. “How did you bear it? I don’t know if I’m strong enough, Clint, to do it as  me . I still feel so small, without...the rest of it...but it has to be me, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, babe. It does. I guess...it was easier for me. I mean, my life was fucked up, but it was  my life , and I knew who and what I was. I was just so damn desperate to find out who the fuck  you were...well, I was willing to do anything to get there. I took some lucky guesses, and was patient...but I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Just that I had to do it for you. For who you still were, and who you could be. But you’re not alone in this. He wants what you’re offering - that helps. And you’ve got support - I’m here for you, always, and Phil and Bruce will take care of you, too. Eventually, Steve will be able to help him, too. You’re so strong, Natasha, so goddamn strong, even without all the weapons and tools you’re used to. You’ll do this.”

Natasha breathes in the darkness, and knows that she will do it, whatever the cost. She’s no goddess, but perhaps she could be a very flawed saint, passing along the priceless grace she was given, and bringing light to a soul consumed by the dark. 


	10. Steve: Fiat Lux

“Ok, Steve, that’s the  third time you’ve mangled this combination. Your head’s clearly not in this today.”

Steve didn’t bother denying her assertion - he merely dropped into a stretch. Natasha had a fair idea of what he was preoccupied with. She had offered to cancel their twice-weekly dance lessons for the foreseeable future, but he had insisted that it wasn’t necessary, that keeping up his training would be good for him. He was trying to out-stubborn both her and himself, and it wasn’t going to work. She waited him out, moving through her own stretches, and reviewing choreography in her head. 

At last, he looked up with a sigh, “I’m sorry, Natasha. I know I said I wanted to keep this up - and I do - but...I can’t get my mind off of Bucky. He’s just sitting there, in SHIELD medical, just sitting there, and I can’t help him.”

“Steve, you know that’s not true. You  have helped him. You got him here, got him to trust you enough to come in, to give us a chance…”

“And what good is it all now, Natasha? What good is it now that he’s here, still so trapped in his own head, in what  those monsters did to him...I’m useless. I’m useless to him, right now.” He whirled on her, so fast - it was easy to forget, sometimes, how fast he was - “And, God help me, I  hate you for being able to help him when I can’t.” His face broke, and he turned from her, gripping the barre with whitening knuckles. “I’m sorry, Natasha. I know that’s not right. I should be grateful to you.”

“Steve. Breathe with me, ok? Just like Bruce taught you.” She models the deep, yogic breaths, and hears Steve’s breathing lengthen and deepen, easing his shoulders and his grip. Carefully, she places one palm in the center of his back, “It’s ok to be angry, Cap. You work best when there’s a clear enemy - when the bullies are external, when your light can overpower them. But you’ve never been to the dark…” he barks a short, scornful laugh, “not like we have, Cap. You’ve known trauma, that’s not the issue. You’ve known the darkness of poverty, of war, of weakness and the shadow of death...and don’t think for one second that I think you’re all sunshine and apple pie, Steve, because I know you better than that. Your anger is righteous, but it can destroy you, surely as Bruce’s could have destroyed him.”

He sags under her touch, and she knows she’s struck home. She keeps talking, letting her hand begin to move in small, comforting circles on his broad back

“Here’s a story, Cap, and it’s a true one: Once upon a time, there was a girl. She had a life, once, and a name, but one day, while she was picking flowers, the earth opened, and the darkness swallowed her up. The darkness was all-encompassing, and it felt like death. It was filled with shades and specters and demons, and they took everything the girl had - her memories, her desires, her family, her very name. Her very self. All she knew was that she was Natalia, a girl who was born.”

“The rulers of this underworld, having hollowed out the girl, made her into the perfect vessel - a container to hold whatever they chose to pour into her. And they began to make her over in their image: they fed her their food, dressed her in their clothes, taught her their skills. She wanted what they told her to want, did what they told her to do, and took into herself whatever they told her to accept. She took the darkness into herself, and she became it, holding the whole of that world inside her skin.”

“They taught her well, how to deceive, how to conceal...and this girl, she used it against them. She hid, she let the darkness hide, the last, shining bits of herself, under all the layers of their training, under the violence and the seduction and the silence. They taught her to be graceful, and she remembered grace, moments of life, of self, red and white like pomegranate seeds, held safe in the center of her darkness.”

“One day, dark like any other day, she found herself face to face with a winged man, dropping feather-light in front of her. Steve, I tell you, on that day, she would have been glad enough to die, truly, but he  saw her. Somehow, he saw what those who trained her always missed - he saw the arils awash in the blood, and he offered her passage back to the world of light.”

“Here’s what you must understand, Steve: the light burned her. She had been in the dark, and of the dark, for so long, that upon coming back up, the light burned. She no longer knew how to take nourishment from it. But she wanted it, with all her might. And she found, as she grew better able to stand the light, that somewhere along the line, she had become a queen of the dark land she’d inhabited, and that she had the  choice , the  choice , Steve, about what to do with the darkness.”

“This is what’s happening to Yasha...to Bucky, right now, Steve. The light is so foreign to him right now that it burns him, it burns him up inside. He wants to be able to stand it, Steve, to stand the heat of your presence - but he’s got to learn to deal with his own darkness first. You’re just so  good \- shut up, I know, not all sunshine and apple pie, but that’s how it looks to him. I’ve been there - he knows that I understand, that I carry the darkness with me, but some of the light, now, too. I can move between the worlds…”

“I would go...into the darkness for him. If he asked. If he’d let me.”

“I know you would. Bucky knows you would. But, Cap, he  needs you to be there at the end. To know that he has you to work his way back to. Because, Steve? When he can look at you, full in the face? When he can touch you? That’s how he’ll know he’s made it out.”

Steve’s back flexes under her hands, and she sees two drops splash on the floor at his feet. “I...I can’t just sit here, waiting, doing nothing, while he struggles. It’s not right. It’s not right that you should have to do this alone.”

“I’m not alone, Steve. And you’ve got the harder part - to watch, and wait.” He turns to look at her, a quirk to his lips. 

“Thousands at his bidding speed/And post o're land and ocean without rest:/They also serve who only stand and wait,” he quotes, with the singsong inflection of childhood memory. “I hated that poem, you know, when the nuns taught it to us. How could  waiting be service? How could that be...be  God’s will, when there’s so much wrong in the world? They told me that I’d understand, one day. ‘Steven Grant Rogers, one of these days, you’ll learn that there are problems you can’t solve with with your fists,’ they’d say. I think they just wanted me to stop getting in fights,” he laughs wetly, traces of tears still in his voice. She laughs too, a bit, her hand stilling on his back. 

He turns to her, then, taking her right hand in his, and lifting it to his mouth. Only he, she thinks, only he could do this with such sincerity. He kisses her knuckles, “Thank you, Natasha, for doing this for him, for being there when I can’t.”

She sweeps him her deepest curtsey; it’s all she can do.

* * *

Weeks later, on a good day, when Bucky mostly knows himself, when the restraints are entirely decorative, she opens up a laptop, and tells him it’s movie day. The strains of  Swan Lake pour through the tinny speakers, and the figures on the screen begin to move.

“No...no, fucking hell Natashenka, that is not...is that  Stevie , in  tights ? Real tights? Je-sus, Mary and Joseph, not even the uniform was that tight, back in the day.” He laughs, full-throated and careless until he’s panting, breathless. 

“He’s really quite good, Bucky,” she admonishes, smiling.

“No, yeah, I see that. Wow, those thighs…”

“Mine or his?”

“Well, his, but, now that  you mention it…” She taps him lightly on the shoulder, reproving.

“He’s missing you. He understands, but he’s missing you.”

“I’m not ready yet...I can’t...but god, Tasha, I want to talk to him…if only to tell him about this.”

“Well, let’s write him a letter, 21st-century style.”   
As Bucky talks to the webcam, alternately ribbing and complimenting Steve on his dancing, Natasha sits in the corner of his room, outwardly serene. Inwardly, there’s an orchestra and an angelic choir, waves of rejoicing flooding her heart. Steve’s patience is being rewarded. Bucky’s eyes are adjusting to his light.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. This is all CyberMathWitch's fault, because (a long, long time ago) we were having a conversation about Natasha as a courtly lady, and how she'd interact with the dude-Avengers through that lens. BUT THEN I realized that (with certain exceptions) the whole goal is for Natasha to learn to break out of the pseudo-courtly paradigm the Red Room shoved her into, to learn how to have authentic relationships. So. Um. That happened. I still want to write a Darcy chapter, but I really really wanted to publish this damn thing. Because it's taunting me.
> 
> The chapters vary highly in length, tone, and probably also quality. But, again, I wanted to get the damn thing out here. 
> 
> Also, I owe SO VERY MUCH of my feeling for and conception of the Avengers to scifigirl's amazing Toasterverse. I'm clearly not actually playing in her sandbox...but hers was the first fanfic in this 'verse I really loved. I have, um, loved much more since then.


End file.
